


The Convention

by GraphDesino



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Other, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:18:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphDesino/pseuds/GraphDesino
Summary: A drabble about Alfred F and the RNC, inspired by listening to too much radio news. CW: vomit, drug use.





	

Alfred spent the first morning vomiting profusely in the employee bathroom of a Cleveland Starbucks. Strangely, he hadn’t felt especially hungover, but the small heap of fast food wrappers he’d found in his hotel room upon waking – and what appeared to be a developing black eye on the left side of his face – gave him at least some indication of what he might have done wrong. Eventually he tidied himself up in front of the sink, used his now lukewarm coffee as mouthwash, and forced himself to stagger back to the campaign bus. It felt like a prophetic start to his week.

The demonstrators, at least, were kind enough to part for him as he made his way towards the convention center, a great Red Sea of frothing humanity. A few people screamed at him. He did his best not to read the protest signs, but as he neared the entrance, he felt the heavy stock of a rifle brush against his shoulder. A rush of paranoia swelled up inside him. He glanced back, one hand darting reflexively into his blazer, but someone on his security detail quickly nudged him inside.

Still, once he in the thick of it, it was hard not to get into the democratic spirit. Each attendee, from the newly-infranchised neophyte to the Good Old Party octogenarian, was clad head-to-toe in garish stars and stripes. He felt almost underdressed by comparison. Only the flag pin over his heart – and a conspicuous lack of official identification, in a room overflowing with people sporting lanyards and badges – served to mark him as what he was. Huge clusters of red, white and blue balloons swayed overhead, like patriotic cysts ready to burst. Classic rock blared over a thousand conversations.

Everyone who held his gaze for more than a moment smiled at him, as though this were some kind of long-awaited homecoming, and for the first few hours he allowed himself to smile back. It _did_ feel sort of good to meet people, real people, after being cooped up in DC for so long.

Of course, it might have been his guest of honor they were grinning at, not him. And it might have been the half a diazepam he’d stirred into his complimentary Diet Coke, not a pure and indomitable sense of civic duty, that made it so easy not to care. But he was upright and functional, and there were quips to be tweeted and hands to be shaken. There was no sense in making this any more painful than it needed to be. And he still loved his people.

Alfred managed to do a final lap around the convention floor before being squirreled away backstage. He felt unsettlingly clear-headed.  The crushed zolpidem tablet he’d thrown back an hour ago seemed to have been wasted on him. The man beside him offered him a smarmy, photo-ready grin, which Alfred felt no compulsion to return. Ever eager to take the initiative, he clapped Alfred on the back instead. The younger man coughed, slumping forward. Sweat beaded on the nape of his neck. He felt he was on the verge of fainting, his heart like a sputtering motor in his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” the man asked, squinting at him.

Alfred shook his head.

The theme music queued up, and the man stepped forward, Alfred shuffling a pace or two behind. The room exploded into a solid wave of sound. Alfred bared his teeth like a cornered animal, waving to them. The roar of the crowd intensified.

 _This is what you are_ , something within him hissed. Not _within_ him – apart from him, a voice ringing in his ears. It cut through the din of the convention, the screaming, the distorted amplified noise. It was the voice of God, he might have thought, if he’d still been able to think coherently.

 _This is your strength,_ it snarled at him, the words growing louder and more hateful with every syllable. _This is the tyranny of majority, **your** majority. Do you feel great yet? Do you feel happy yet? Do you feel safe yet?_

Alfred glanced over at the man beside him, blinking. The hallucination carried on, silencing all the rest. He turned back to the mob, staring vacantly into the blur of camera flashes.

He almost didn’t notice when someone pulled him back offstage. His body was drenched in a dense, cold sweat, and he collapsed into a plastic chair, aching for sleep.


End file.
